Traversing the Underworld requires a level of access available to a privileged few, a privilege that makes itself known each time Charon’s medallion glows. An answering glow illuminates the roads and bridges that rise to meet him and the gates that open for him.

Charon’s shadowed figure moves alone, with neither hesitation nor interference, until he arrives at the large white columns and arching doorway that lead to the banquet hall. As he enters the anteroom Charon lowers his hood to reveal his wizened face, wispy white hair, and eerily blue eyes.

Ornate twin doors tower over the four soldiers who stand guard, and even over Charon’s larger frame, glittering with jewels and precious metals twisting to create intricate patterns. None of the soldiers greet him verbally, their eyes are already lowered in deference. Two of them lower their heads as well and stare pointedly at the ground.
Their lips tighten to a thin line under their helmets, their knuckles and nail beds grow white as they grip their ceremonial spears and Charon smiles in sympathy. The two staring at the ground must be newer recruits. More seasoned soldiers have an easier time keeping their composure.

A familiar melody starts up in the banquet hall, followed by a call and response as the new song begins in earnest. One of the soldiers adjusts his stance, shifting pressure to a different foot. The movement catches Charon’s eye and he notices the other soldiers adjusting their posture as well.

“Have you been here long?” He asks the soldiers.

One soldier who managed to keep his head up answers the question in a clear voice. The gleaming emblem on his shoulder marks him as an officer of notable rank, possibly a lieutenant.

“Since the banquet started, sir, but there was a shift change yesterday. Two of our number are new recruits. Please excuse any disrespect, sir, it’s most likely nerves.”

“Relax, soldier. I won’t hold it against you or your men.” The wrinkling skin in the corners of Charon’s eyes soften his face as he smiles.

“Thank you, sir.”

The other soldiers visibly relax after their exchange, and those holding their heads down manage to straighten up. But when Charon doesn’t move toward the door, they exchange confused glances—as much as they can without openly moving, anyway.

“Would you like us to keep that for you while you’re inside, sir?” The lieutenant asks, indicating the woven basket peeking out of the ferryman’s cloak. Charon hugs it closer in response and his smile turns impish.

“If you did that, what would I present to the king and queen in its place?”

“But those are—no, of course, you wouldn’t want to greet them empty-handed. I didn’t mean to offend.” The incredulous soldier almost raises his eyes to meet Charon’s. Almost, but he catches himself in time. The other soldiers steal glances at the basket in Charon’s arms and similar expressions of surprise and curiosity ghost over their faces.

“This gift isn’t the most traditional, but neither is this event.” Charon answers. “Besides, with everyone else likely to bring precious metals and jewels, they might appreciate something more practical.”

“The Meadows had a bountiful harvest this year, sir. It’s all thanks to Their Majesties.” One junior soldier speaks up, pride outweighing his nerves.

The lieutenant clears his throat and the junior soldier lifts his head immediately, keeping his eyes lowered. The constellation of moles along his cheek and his generally pleasant features surely make him popular, and Charon wonders idly about the man’s connection to the Meadows.

“Well said, soldier. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Charon nods, even though he knows the gesture is lost on the man who can’t even look him in the eye. With one final breath to steel himself, Charon steps through the banquet doors that the soldiers rush to hold open for him.